Mar 31, 2007
It is a slap in the face to every member of the enlisted military, their families, and their their survivors. The enlisted personnel in our military did not make the decision to invade Iraq. They just did what their commander in chief said.
After 9/11, everyone in this country wanted to kick some ass, and who did we look to? Our neighbors? Our friends? Ourselves? Did we all, the common everyday, gas-guzzling, teachers, mechanics, bankers, whoever, do it? No. We sent our military to do it. And now they have become in many people's eyes nothing more than hired killers.
As for allegations, well, we are all innocent until proven guilty. Or does that not apply to our service members? Are they held to some higher standard than the rest of us? Are they supposed to find body parts of their comrades and not feel anything? Are they supposed to be shot at, and not shoot back? Would you?
I didn't want them to go. I voted for Kerry, hoping that would prevent some of this mess. But I was criticized because people didn't think he would be a strong commander-in-chief.
I lost my son who was serving in Iraq as a medic, and when I read these comments it is as if someone has kicked me in the stomach. You do not know my son, who had a 4 year old son, a baby on the way that he never had the chance to see. You do not know how intelligent, compassionate, giving and wonderful he was. You do not know any of the people you accuse of being mad killers. Probably most of the deaths incurred in Iraq were from suicide bombers and IED devices. I don't know of any suicide bombers in our military.
Unless you are there, doing what they are doing, you don't know what they face each and every day. My brother was called baby-killer and God knows what else when he returned from Viet Nam. Looks like its going to happen again. And he enlisted because he felt it was the right thing to do. God, what a stupid guy, huh? He received a bronze star, a purple heart, and other medals that lie in a box covered with dust. They lie there because of how they were earned and the memories they bring back.
I suggest all of those who believe our military personnel are such base and ignorant people go to the 3000+ families that have lost wives, husbands, sons, and daughters, and tell them that to their face. Let them give you their opinion of what they think about you.
Goddammit, I am mad. I am so fucking mad. And I am hurt, more than anything. You think this war has caused you pain? You don't know shit!!
Everyone talks about the media, and how they don't focus on the real issues, and how their reporting is not up to standard, but let them say anything derogatory about the troops in Iraq and they instantly become believable and up-to-the minute purveyors of truth and justice. Do you honestly believe everything you hear?
Because we hate the war in Iraq, it has become a popular thread to associate everything with the war as bad. Even our troops. Please, if you want the real story, go to Iraq and see for yourself. Then come back and tell me what a bunch of cutthroats they are.
Then, you can kiss my ass. And take a flying fuck to the moon. Because its all brown-nosing. Oh, this is the popular thing to say, so I better say it. Don't want anyone to think I'm not against the current and popular theme in the country. Don't want anyone to actually think I associate with the low-life people who join the military because they have nothing better to do.
In some countries it is mandatory that everyone serve in the military. Good thing you don't live there because you would be one of those lowlifes too.
As I said before, don't tell me my son joined the military because he was stupid to do anything else. You did not know him. And, unfortunately, you never will.
God, what a lot of bullshit there is floating around on the net, uttered by people, who if things got bad, the first person they would look to for help would be that marine, or soldier in his fatigues and carrying his M-16.
Mar 30, 2007
-- President George W. Bush June 30, 2005
One of the biggest things they are doing is providing mosquito nets for families and people at risk. And medications, for those who are already infected.
Now, for this to work, we must assume that the people most likely to be affected by this malaria epidemic have access to, 1. homes, 2. beds in said homes, 3. and no other immediate concerns like fighting an aids, acess to food, water, and safety.
I understand that malaria is a horrible recurring disease, and it can be dangerous, especially to pregnant women. But some of the problems facing African nations are a little more immediate. Such as having access to food, water, housing, fighting an aids epidemic, and safety.
Why they chose malaria as their particular cause, seems somewhat bizarre. I guess the first issue I would address is the growing number of households that are run by the oldest child left after the parents have succumbed to aids. Or people who do not have any food. Or doing something more about the aids epidemic which is of major proportions. But the food and water thing seems to come first in my mind. People without food and water usually don't live long enough to get malaria.
Yes, I know, corrupt governments make it extremely difficult to get the necessary supplies, such as food, to those that need it. But, we could always look for weapons of mass destruction, and find them, sort of, or pretend we did, and go over and hang the corrupt politicians. I mean, its not like we haven't done it before. I think George and Laura could probably do this without using troops. Just send all of the republicans over there, give them a to do list, and make sure it gets done. They could always increase the amount of republicans if they have to.
Once this is completed, we could then send missionaries who would solve the aids issue by telling them to just say no. Oh, wait, that was Nancy Reagan's big thing, and look how well that turned out.
So, tell me, am I not taking this seriously enough? Am I not seeing the whole picture here? And just sitting here thinking, I realized that Iraq is not that far from Africa. Just a hop, skip, and a jump, actually. I had thought it was part of Africa, but its actually listed as being part of Asia.* So the republicans could stop, and visit the troops in Iraq, especially Baghdad, which according to John McCain, is pretty much as safe as Detroit right now. Gosh, I can see the Iraqi's getting into the automobile industry! Perfect name for their new SUV, the Insurgent. But, I digress.
Again, I ask you, has malaria become the number one issue facing the world and the USA? Could terrorists train mosquito's infected with malaria to infiltrate the US and cause mass destruction and death? Or just a need for mosquito nets? I guess I need to pay more attention to these things. You know there is an ulterior motive for this interest in malaria. For the Bush administration, I mean. It can't be only because they want to help people in other countries.
*Woman's Day magazine, April 17 2007 edition, Your Health, page37, produced by Jennifer Rainey Marquez
Mar 28, 2007
How to Poop at Work
We've all been there but don't like to admit it. We've all kicked back in our cubicles and suddenly felt something brew down below. As much as we try to convince ourselves otherwise, the WORK POOP is inevitable. For those who hate pooping at work, following is the Survival Guide for taking a dump at work. Memorize these definitions and pooping at work will become a pure pleasure.
ESCAPEE--Definition: a fart that slips out while taking a leak at the urinal or forcing a poop in a stall. This is usually accompanied by a sudden wave of panic embarrassment. This is similar to the hot flash you receive when passing an unseen police car and speeding. If you release an escapee, do not acknowledge it. Pretend it did not happen. If you are standing next to the farter in the urinal, pretend you did not hear it. No one likes an escapee, it is uncomfortable for all involved. Making a joke or laughing makes both parties feel uneasy.
JAILBREAK (Used in conjunction with ESCAPEE)--Definition: When forcing poop, several farts slip out at a machine gun pace. This is usually a side effect of diarrhea or a hangover. If this should happen, do not panic. Remain in the stall until everyone has left the bathroom so to spare everyone the awkwardness of what just occurred.
COURTESY FLUSH--Definition: The act of flushing the toilet the instant the nose cone of the poop log hits the water and the poop is whisked away to an undisclosed location. This reduces the amount of air time the poop has to stink up the bathroom. This can help you avoid being caught doing the WALK OF SHAME.
WALK OF SHAME--Definition: Walking from the stall, to the sink, to the door after you have just stunk up the bathroom. This can be a very uncomfortable moment if someone walks in and busts you. As with all farts, it is best to pretend that the smell does not exist. Can be avoided with the use of the COURTESY FLUSH.
OUT OF THE CLOSET POOPER--Definition: A colleague who poops at work and damn proud of it. You will often see an Out Of The Closet Pooper enter the bathroom with a newspaper or magazine under their arm. Always look around the office for the Out Of The Closet Pooper before entering the bathroom.
THE POOPING FRIENDS NETWORK (PFN)--Definition: A group of coworkers who band together to ensure emergency pooping goes off without incident. This group can help you to monitor the whereabouts of Out Of The Closet Poopers, and identify SAFE HAVENS.
SAFE HAVENS--Definition: A seldom used bathroom somewhere in the building where you can least expect visitors. Try floors that are predominantly of the opposite sex. This will reduce the odds of a pooper of your sex entering the bathroom.
TURD BURGLAR--Definition: A pooper who does not realize that you are in the stall and tries to force the door open. This is one of the most shocking and vulnerable moments that can occur when taking a dump at work. If this occurs, remain in the stall until the Turd Burglar leaves. This way you will avoid all uncomfortable eye contact.
CAMO-COUGH--Definition: A phony cough that alerts all new entrants into the bathroom that you are in a stall. This can be used to cover-up a WATERMELON, or to alert potential Turd Burglars. Very effective when used in conjunction with an ASTAIRE.
ASTAIRE--Definition: A subtle toe-tap that is used to alert potential Turd Burglars that you are occupying a stall. This will remove all doubt that the stall is occupied. If you hear an Astaire, leave the bathroom immediately so the pooper can poop in peace.
WATERMELON--Definition: A turd that creates a loud splash when hitting the toilet water. This is also an embarrassing incident. If you feel a Watermelon coming on, create a diversion. See CAMO-COUGH.
HAVANA OMELET--Definition: A load of diarrhea that creates a series of loud splashes in the toilet water. Often accompanied by an Escapee. Try using a Camo-Cough with an Astaire.
UNCLE TED--Definition: A bathroom user who seems to linger around forever. Could spend extended lengths of time in front of the mirror or sitting on the pot. An Uncle Ted makes it difficult to relax while on the crapper, as you should always wait to drop your load when the bathroom is empty. This benefits you as well as the other bathroom attendees.
FLY BY--Definition: The act of scouting out a bathroom before pooping. Walk in and check for other poopers. If there are others in the bathroom, leave and come back again. Be careful not to become a FREQUENT FLYER. People may become suspicious if they catch you constantly going into the bathroom.
I know this is extremely valuable information for us all, and I suggest you make a copy and back it up as soon as possible. For your sake, and mine.
Mar 26, 2007
Oh, mercy mercy me,
I won the English lottery
And now that I am rich,
And my life won't me a bitch,
Ah, lalalala, ah lalala, la, la, la
Oh, forgive me. I just had the urge to break out in song, after receiving this wonderful email. You think I should add this guy to my buddy list? Maybe we can get together and do a little somethin', somethin', you know what I mean?
Batch: 12/25/0034Your ticket number:564-75600545-188 with Serial
number 5388/02 drew the lucky number: won you the lottery prize in the 2nd categoryyou have just won yourself - FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS ONLY-in the satellitesoftwareemail lottery conducted by BIG TIME INTERNATIONAL SWEEPSTAKES here in United Kingdom in which e-mail addresses are picked randomly by software powered by the Internet. Contact our Promotion ClaimsAgent.Mr.Paul Blair Email:firstname.lastname@example.org
Notice they do not say five hundred thousand pounds of what. And, in case I have more than one name, which is something they must be familiar with, they just need to know what they are. And why oh why do they always have a yahoo email address?!?
Mar 24, 2007
There is something that has been bothering me. It concerns the troops in Iraq. I want them to come home, we all do. Yesterday an entire marine unit was ordered home due to allegations that some opened fire on civilians after a 'car bomb' killed members of their unit. I don't know. I wasn't there.
We hear plenty of these stories, but some of the Iraqi people are returning to Baghdad. Why? Because of our troops are there, and the job they have been doing all of this time. Trying to stay alive, and, believe it or not, trying to help the Iraqi people. While I do not agree with our troops being there, I think we owe them some credit for what they have accomplished.
Much like Viet Nam, these troops have no idea who is the enemy and who is the innocent civilian. They have acted on orders from their command, and tried to carry them out with the least amount of casualties. During operation Matador, when an armored vehicle carrying marines was blown apart by an ied device, my son, as a corpsman, organized the recovery of bodies, and body parts, searching for survivors, and did this with professionalism and respect. There is no way we can understand what he felt as he recovered what was left of his comrades.
The biggest thing I guess that bothers me about my son's involvement in Operation Iraqi Freedom, is the feeling of having to explain why he was there. His last words, I have been told, was, "Don't get another Doc, I'm coming back..." Many do. Many are wounded and when their wounds are healed they go back, to be with their unit. Call it survivors guilt, call it whatever you want, but these troops have a dedication to each other that is honorable. Tragic, but honorable. I am tired of trying to justify to anyone why my son was in Iraq. He believed in what they were trying to accomplish. He always told me, "don't watch the news mama, because its a bunch of bullshit." Which, more and more, is becoming apparent to everyone.
Why the individual soldier has volunteered to go to Iraq, and to go back a second and third time, has a great deal to do with loyalty to their comrades. I don't think we have seen this type of loyalty in war before. And, they shouldn't have to defend their reasons. Yes, they should all come home. Today. But, let's at least give them the respect due them for their efforts and their sacrifice.
The media loves to report every allegation of so-called atrocities committed by our troops. We should remember that the brass already have calculated how many casualties, civilian and otherwise, will result in any conflict.
While many serving in Iraq are beginning to see the futility of this war, they are still there. Doing their best to cope with unbelievable stress and hardships. Let's just not give them our support, let us give them a heads up for the accomplishments they have achieved, despite the negative press they receive here at home. And, for God's sake, remember they are engaged in a war, and must, at all times conduct themselves as warriors.
Mar 22, 2007
"I understand there's a suspicion that we—we're too security-conscience."—Washington D.C., April 14, 2005
"We look forward to analyzing and working with legislation that will make—it would hope—put a free press's mind at ease that you're not being denied information you shouldn't see." —Washington, D.C., April 14, 2005
"I'm going to spend a lot of time on Social Security. I enjoy it. I enjoy taking on the issue. I guess, it's the Mother in me." —Washington D.C., April 14, 2005
"In this job you've got a lot on your plate on a regular basis; you don't have much time to sit around and wander, lonely, in the Oval Office, kind of asking different portraits, 'How do you think my standing will be?' "—Washington, D.C., March 16, 2005
"I always jest to people, the Oval Office is the kind of place where people stand outside, they're getting ready to come in and tell me what for, and they walk in and get overwhelmed by the atmosphere. And they say 'man, you're looking pretty.' "—Washington, D.C., Nov. 4, 2004
"Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we."—Washington, D.C., Aug. 5, 2004 (Thanks to Alicia Butler.)
"One of the most meaningful things that's happened to me since I've been the governor—the president—governor—president. Oops. Ex-governor. I went to Bethesda Naval Hospital to give a fellow a Purple Heart, and at the same moment I watched him—get a Purple Heart for action in Iraq—and at that same—right after I gave him the Purple Heart, he was sworn in as a citizen of the United States—a Mexican citizen, now a United States citizen."—Washington, D.C., Jan. 9, 2004
"I've reminded the prime minister—the American people, Mr. Prime Minister, over the past months that it was not always a given that the United States and America would have a close relationship."—Washington, D.C., June 29, 2006
"Finally, the desk, where we'll have our picture taken in front of—is nine other Presidents used it. This was given to us by Queen Victoria in the 1870s, I think it was. President Roosevelt put the door in so people would not know he was in a wheelchair. John Kennedy put his head out the door."—Showing German newspaper reporter Kai Diekmann the Oval Office, Washington, D.C., May 5, 2006
And my personal favorite:
"I like my buddies from west Texas. I liked them when I was young, I liked them then I was middle-age, I liked them before I was president, and I like them during president, and I like them after president."—Nashville, Tenn., Feb. 1, 2006
*quotes courtesy Slate magazine
Mar 19, 2007
Coming from the poor side of the holler, where the honeysuckle twines, I went to school with kids from a new part of the community--the suburbs. Their houses looked like mansions to me, and even at six I became acutely aware of the vast difference in life style between my school mates, and myself. For one thing, they went to town to buy their clothes, while my mom got ours through the mail. Which meant when they got their new shoes, they actually fit! No blisters, no agony, just shoes. This was back in the day when little girls wore dresses, and boys wore long pants that fit. I was a tomboy, and putting me in a frilly dress was like putting a new suit on the town drunk. It looked OK, but just wasn't right, somehow. And I actually lived pretty close to the town drunk, who was a fascinating man in that my mother told me how very wicked he was. My older sister, the neighbor boy, and myself spied on him every chance we got.
Anyway, I digress. In school, though, when called on to read, I glanced at the page, looked up and told the teacher what was written there. She admonished me for not looking at my book when I read, which frustrated me as there were about four or five words on each page, and was that really reading? I was a Redbird. I read better than most of the Bluebirds, but I was still a Redbird. I couldn't figure this out. Was it because I was tall? Up until high school, I was usually one of the tallest kids in my school. (I was 5'5" in the sixth grade.) So I was decidedly different from the other kids in that respect. I also called a paper bag a poke, I did not have inside plumbing, (a secret I soon guarded from my classmates), I had never been to a movie theater, and I didn't know any of the other kids. I felt out of place, and wanted nothing better than to run away and become a jockey. I loved horses with a passion, and my best friend was a pony named Bill. But that's another story.
It didn't really dawn on me that we were that poor until we started doing handstands and cartwheels waiting for the bus after school to take us home. Since ours was the last stop, all the 'city' kids didn't see where we lived. As for the handstands, the girls were required to wear shorts under their dresses in order to do this. I mean, we didn't want the boys seeing our panties did we? I did not possess any shorts, so my sister got the idea that I could wear a pair of Daddy's boxer shorts. So I did, and the next day, while waiting for the bus, I did my handstands and cartwheels, and one girl started laughing at me. I stopped and looked at my sister. "What is she wearing? Bloomers?!?" the girl laughed. Which of course made the other kids laugh. I didn't really care, but looking at my sister, 4 years older than me, seeing the way she stood, head down, tears in her eyes, but bravely defending me, I decided not to do anymore handstands or cartwheels. Right then, at that moment, I realized we were different. We were poor. We didn't live the same way as my classmates. And it just popped in my head, 'That's why I'm not a bluebird!' I wasn't good enough. Not academically, but socially. I didn't know these words, but the I knew the gist of them. And I decided at that moment to keep our home life a secret. I would never have a friend spend the night, unless they were related to us in some way. And I would never fit in at school. I would still always dream about running away, but my mother had me convinced she would die if something like that happened, so I was stuck. I missed as much school as I possibly could, and still made the honor roll, but not one teacher ever wondered why. They pretty much just bitched at me in front of the class for missing so much school, which really made me a target for even more ridicule.
I learned how to not draw attention to myself. Oh, I wasn't entirely friendless. I always got along with a few kids, and of course there were times when I had fun, but mostly it was a waiting game to get out of school. I always felt much older in some ways than the other kids. And, there was always my Mother to take care of at home, full of her fears and delusions, which was another big secret. My parents never went to the schools for PTA, or for special programs. My mother never left the house period. I learned later this was agoraphobia.
But the thing that sticks out in my mind the most, when all is said and done, is not being a Bluebird. Would my life have been any different if I was? Should my life have been different? Would I still be able to relate to all kinds of people, regardless of their social standing, or economic status, in the same way? Poverty is like a coating of dust that clings to you, no matter how much you rise above it, that thin film is always there. But, it does make you resourceful, and teaches you to survive in whatever situation you find yourself in. And it helps you understand that you are no better than anyone else, and, ultimately no worse.
I look back now and wonder what secrets my classmates hid, and if their day-to-day lives were that much better than mine. I may not have been a bluebird then, or a bluebird now, but I'm the best damn mockingbird you'll ever find. Damn it all.
Mar 17, 2007
Mar 15, 2007
|Your Dominant Thinking Style: Experimenting|
The master of mix and match, you're always coming up with unique combinations.You are good at getting a group to reach consensus.
Mar 12, 2007
Mar 7, 2007
That was like a year ago it seems, and I feel so fucking bad. And like some people, who I won't mention, who have wives who plump their pillows, and fix them chicken soup, and make sure the humidifier is set at the right level, for maximum comfort, I have to wallow around in my god-awful nest I call my bed, alone, unwanted, looking like a douche bag. Every so often, I'm brushing a few crumbs out of the way, bursting into tears because the remote has fallen off the bed, and I have to reach all the way down there and get myself. Myself!! Fucking remote. Asshole, son-of-a-bitch, mean as hell remote. Sometimes it gets sneaky and works its way under the covers, and you have to flop the sheets and comforter up in the air, not once, but many times, look for the little bastard.
I think the cats thought I was going to croak, because they gave me a wide berth, only waking me up to feed them. I open their damn cat food every day. Seems the ungrateful little fuckers could do the same for me.
I know I'm whining. Its my blog, and I'll whine if I want to, whine if I want to, whine if I want to, you would whine to, if you felt like I do.....God, that sounds like a song! Maybe the lack of oxygen has forced parts of my brain that I didn't know was there to start working. I could emerge from this as a song-writer. Ya think?
What I should really do is get in my car and drive around to all the people who have shit on me the last couple of years, and breath on their door knobs, but that would look odd. Even for me.
I am usually one of those 'nice' sick people, you know, the kind that never make demands, that don't complain, that lie through their teeth, "No, I feel better, really, I've always been prone to projectile vomiting. Runs in the family I guess." Well, not this time. I'm going to complain loudly, thoroughly, and a lot. God dammit. So there.
Mar 4, 2007
Mar 1, 2007
It came with a six-month free ISP, so I got online in about two hours. I was on the world wide web, the internet, that vast unknown space full of information, ideas, and useful tools to make me a more productive citizen. Ok....
The first thing I got was this stupid looking purple gorilla that danced all over the screen. I don't know how I got it, but I did, and it cost 19.95 a month. I tried to delete the little fucker, but he wouln't go away. I called the company, about 20 times, and I finally got instructions on how to remove it. And the cost.
Then I discovered the instant messenger. I became obsessed with it. I spent hours talking and flirting with God knows who, but they all said they were handsome and single. I didn't get out much, what can I say? When I had my dad settled for the night, I ran to the computer, and started chatting away. I made up provocative screen names, and attracted a lot of attention.
I actually placed a personal add on Yahoo.
Then I discovered message boards. One of them was for women, and it was mostly visited by men. Sometimes I wonder if I was posting messages on a board that was read by only one person with a lot of screen names. We argued extensively about whether women should be kept in the home, where they belonged, or other stupid topics.
I met three guys online. I mean I actually met them in person. One in particular, we'll call him turtle neck, because he didn't have a neck at all. How this is possible I don't know, but it was true for him. He told me that many women thought he was attractive, and I learned a big, huge, enormous lesson. Do not give out your phone number. He called me about five times a day, even though I told him not to. I agreed to meet him, so we met at the IGA parking lot, a very romantic place. I took one look at this guy, pale, flabby, and with no neck, and thought, Oh my God! I have to get away from this guy. I told him, (oh, this is great), that I didn't feel any chemistry. Let's say he expressed his disbelief loudly, and thoroughly, saying I could at least give him a chance. Then he said the words that inevitably I knew he would say: You ain't no prize yourself!! Well, I already knew that, but at least I had a neck! So, I did what any good caring American woman would do, I locked my doors and drove off like a bat out of hell.
I thought I had learned my lesson. I really did. But, I started chatting with an older gentleman who told me he was in his late 50's. He was so sweet, sent me beautiful ecards, and told me all about his life, which all turned out to be true. His name was Charlie. He even sent me an enormous bouquet of roses for valentines day at work. Everyone was so curious, and I was just carried away. I agreed to meet him for coffee at Shoney's. (I lived large back then, only the finest restaurants for me, and cost was nothing.) I was nervous, and walked in, and standing there, in Bermuda shorts, tube socks, and a fanny pack, was an elderly man about 75 years old. I know he was 75 because he told me. He said he lied about his age because he was young at heart, still full of vigor, but was afraid I wouldn't show up.
Evidently he decided then and there I was the woman for him. And here I am thinking, again, how in the world do I get myself in these messes? He seemed like a genuinely nice person, but he would have made a better father than a boyfriend. He talked and talked and talked, and I just sat there in shock. Finally, I found an excuse to leave.
Then the emails started. He sent me about 20 emails a day. He wanted us to get together. I told my brother about it, and he said, "Does he have money?" My brother has always looked out for my best interests. "Well," he said, "At 75, he could just pop off any time..." Had he been a millionaire, I couldn't see it happening. Well, maybe, no, no, I wouldn't have.
I tried to discourage him. I really did. But I didn't want to hurt his feelings. His pursuit continued, and I ended up giving him my phone number, again. Then he called and sent emails. He wanted to meet my brother and sister. I said ok. Don't ask me why, I don't know. Maybe I was missing my father, or liked the attention, no matter how irritating it was. So, he came to my house, and visited with my brother and sister-in-law. My brother thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I wanted to slap him. A few days later, he came out while I was at work, and cut my grass. And when I say cut my grass, I mean cut my grass. There was nothing left but dirt.
I think I snapped. I called him, and told him to never come out without an invitation from me. I told him I had bipolar disorder and could go crazy at any time. He said we could work it out. I told him I was schizophrenic, and he said we could work it out. I told him I would keep seeing other men, he said that would be problem, but we could work it out, and then I said the magic words. The words I had been avoiding. "Charlie, your just too old for me." Then the flood-gates opened, and with great anger, but with dignity, he told me what he thought of me. How I had led him on, how I had promised him my love, (when?), how I wasn't a prize either, (why does this keep coming up?) but finally it was over.
I do not chat anymore, or post personal ads. I suggest you don't either, unless its with a relative, or a priest. And every time, that stupid match.com commercial comes on, telling you how wonderful it is to meet your soul mate, I break loose with a stream of obscenities that would make a hardened criminal blush.